Vertigo x Sinusitis x Anxiety

I often think of running.

Of scampering through wilderness

and climbing trees.

Squirrel-ish.

And so many times I’ve hiked

to those places where it’s possible,

where if I just wished,

surely I’d blossom with reddish fur

and bottle-brush tail,

dart across leaf, branch and vine–

but

my body and mind dislike playing together.

Instead, their constant battling

cause my legs to sway, heart stampeding somewhere else;

those dreamt delights hissing as they sputter out,

rolling off balance,

decaying

among the rich leaves

hugging my feet.

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Elastagirl

In the spaces of my sockets (shoulder

sockets, that is, not eye)

the dust of all the things I’ve reached for

collects; the joints are loath to return

to face the withered evidence of so many bursts of hope.

No, they prefer to float away, striving for that bit of extra stretch

that will let me grasp those

teasing, nearly there, fluttering dreams.

I wouldn’t mind, but the sinew is wearing thin

and I need my arms to work properly

to embrace those bubbly moments of now.

The fading of memory as time closes in

It runs, feral thing, clawing its way to the corner

where it dives into the carpet and hides there

in the swirls of moth-eaten flowers and turquoise gaps.

The pathway it came down disappeared

and left it abandoned in the ruins, watching the stairs

it once so loved to climb

crumple into wisps of doubt.

What did the house look like before?

Does it still exist? Did it ever?

Nightmares

Onyx, the beast floods the room.
Eyes mine but rubbed raw, the scratches from its claws
already infested with the times
it couldn’t escape, couldn’t let go
and all the while I sleep
while waking.

I’ve given up counting sheep, they only stand on me.

I’m yawning the moment I sit down

even though I’m there to listen to sleep –

or how to get there, or to leave there.

It’s one or the other with me.

The hands clutch tight or not at all.

In Nod, they’re as fickle as fame, apparently.

It’s like trying to get excited for a school trip you don’t want to go on

while at the same time

watching everyone else go off to Disney

and find your feet stuck to the floor.

You mustn’t go during the day, they warn

as my mind skips away from my body.

Chapped lips, worn shoes

Who knew speech could be connected to footsteps?

I didn’t, before I met you.

 

Every step you take

carries its own conversation, its own beat,

its own theme.

 

Observations of ourselves,

down to our mirrors,

the characters we play or the roles we choose.

 

The sun can be high, or switch with the moon.

Dusty rock or marshland, it matters not.

 

The well you speak from never runs dry

as your steps don’t falter.

 

Unless you’re catching forty winks,

that is.

If, If, If

If a matter is discussed and a plan settled,

does a question need to be posed

and an answer given?

 

If a shadow becomes more than just the absence of light,

growing solid, dependable, sentient,

shouldn’t it be given its own life?

 

If a half finds itself wondering if it’ll ever meet its other,

knowing some depend on it not doing so

and some hoping it will,

how can it live knowing one day

it might have to choose?

 

We puzzle scenarios to make sense of the world,

yet we neglect our own hearts

and are blind to ourselves.

Dream Wars

What are the frames like

surrounding your dreams?

Is everything separate,

preventing thoughts from straying one to another?

Rigid uniformity, same shape, same style

down to the wire used to string them up.

Do you ever take them down, remove the frames completely,

throw the thin sheeting into the air

and see what part of you it settles next to?

What if it strayed into your motivation,

urged you to want it, achieve it,

regardless of whether it would be deemed proper,

respectable, useful to society?

I see the struggle behind your eyes as you think

how to answer, your want for freedom

fighting with your self-restraint, trained

from birth to keep a tight rein on

wishing upon ‘impossibilities’.

I want to tell you how to overpower it.

But it’s one of those times

when you have to find the answer.

What are your dreams telling you?

Pastry treats

It’s a turnover,

Filled full of dreams

Mixed into a puree.

But the taste is always sweet, always tart

And always in no way comparable to the whole, solid fruit.

Bearer

it’s just a small thing.

a trinket.

overlooked in a rushing crowd

but noticed instantly by family.

I wonder if they’d be surprised

to see it there,

making rainbows skip about the walls

as it caught the light

while I would sit, fingers wrapped around a tea cup,

in front of the window

facing them.

you’d be next to me,

teeth as bright as the gem you gave me

in a smile that i treasure even more.